Poem: In an Attic

 

In an Attic

 

spiderlegs for lashes, lush in arched rows,

not all is correct

in this pallor of neglect and dust.

 

did the victim realize too late

those eyes could be pigmented flytraps?

 

cracked now, crazed on canvas,

a vestige of beguilement once agile,

glazed-fish skin, a gelatin now,

 

under cobweb bangs

in a tricky tangled cursive,

messy epitaph for a once-magical grace.

 

the pretty part went away

long before the portrait was through,

corpses of so many lively creatures

amassing in the interstices

for decades.

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